


Black in the Moonlight and Bubbling in the Brew

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hocus Pocus (1993)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hocus Pocus Fusion, Cannibalism, Comedy, Gen, Halloween, Horror, Inspired by Hocus Pocus (1993), M/M, Teenage Alana, Teenage Freds, Underage in the main ship but nothing explicit happens, Witchcraft, aka the usual, teenage will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: New kid in town Will Graham gets shown the sights around his charming, quaint new home of Wolftrap one Halloween night, when his classmates Alana and Frederick decide to take him to the once-condemned house where a trio of witches supposedly lived centuries ago. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Gabi Ibanescu/Nigel (Charlie Countryman), Jean (Le Chiffre)/Being so very Done with both of his brothers' antics, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 56
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaddieContrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieContrary/gifts).



> What was supposed to be a Halloween one-shot is now going to be a two or three-parter that gets to count toward my nanowrimo count this year, I guess. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ For those of you also following Body and Blood, don't worry, we'll be back to our regular updates for that fic starting next week. <3

“And so the Lecter triplets were hanged for their crimes against the good townsfolk of Wolftrap, after which the mysterious disappearances ceased. Sadly, while the Verger heir’s body was found on the property at the time of their apprehension, his sister’s loyal maid Beverly Katz was never found. Some speculated she simply fled the town in terror of what she found at the Lecter house, while others assumed a more gruesome end for the young woman. Whatever the case may be, she was never heard from again.”

Most of the students sit boredly through the lesson, either half-asleep or tapping away on their phones hidden under their desks. Of the few paying any attention to their instructor, only one takes notes, carefully writing out the convicted murderers’ and alleged occultists’ names in ink—Jean, Nigel, and Hannibal Lecter. The boy in the desk beside his chortles with a pompous arrogance he will eventually grow into as he gets older, but for now just sounds patently ridiculous coming from a seventeen-year-old.

“Ease up, Graham, you’re making the rest of us look bad,” Frederick says, lightly tapping the other boy’s arm with the back of his hand. Will tenses a little at the touch but doesn’t say anything. “This won’t be on a test, I can assure you.”

“Well, at least _someone_ is actually paying attention,” says their teacher, Mr. Price.

“We’ve all heard this story a million times already!” Brian Zeller complains from the back row. “I mean, all of us except for new kid anyway.”

“It’s sort of a Halloween tradition for our homeroom teachers to retell it every year,” explains the girl at Will’s other side, Alana. Will smiles and nods in acknowledgment to her only and sets his pen back down.

“Alana, what time is your parents’ little fête? It’s usually seven, right?” Frederick asks as they head to their lockers after the bell rings.

“Six, right as it gets dark. Will, you’re coming too, right?”

“Oh, right. Daylight savings, I always forget that,” Frederick mutters.

“I didn’t even know there was a party tonight,” Will answers, putting his books away.

“Of course he’s coming. He’s with us after all,” says Frederick, referring to himself and his parents, grabbing Will’s shoulder to give him a rather awkward “brotherly” shake. “And it wouldn’t be a proper Bloom Halloween party if you didn’t have the entire Chilton clan under your roof for the night, now would it?”

Alana smiles politely and Will resists the urge to shrug off his foster brother’s grip. Not fifteen minutes ago he was still _Graham_ and now suddenly he’s one of _the Chilton clan_. He’d rather still be Graham, but there isn’t exactly a nice way to say so.

It’s not that the Chiltons are a _bad_ family. They’ve been good to him. He never goes hungry under their roof and they even bought a whole new wardrobe for him when he moved in. (Not that he’d thought there was anything wrong with his old clothes, at least the stuff that fit and wasn’t full of holes yet, but the Chiltons obviously disagreed.) He just can’t shake off the feeling that he’s more like some weird trophy for them than a potential new member of the family. A very weird _present_ for their son specifically in lieu of a new car so he could “prove” he’s responsible enough to have one without the stakes of getting him a fern or a puppy he’d forget to water, or a younger foster child they’d actually have to pay attention to themselves.

The situation would be a whole lot more bearable if Frederick would just admit he resented Will for it, at least a little, instead of making a grand show of parading his new “little brother” around like a shiny new Rolex on his wrist. _Accessory_ would be more apt than trophy, perhaps.

It’s apparently mandatory to show up in costume, which would be _fine_ if anyone had told him there would be a party and that he would be expected to go. To be fair to the Chiltons though, Will has only lived with them for a few weeks. It probably just slipped their minds amidst everything else they had to do to get him settled here.

Frederick kindly offers him the use of a bottle of fake blood he bought for his own costume and suggests he show up as a murder victim, but Will doesn’t want to find out how Mr. and Mrs. Chilton would react to him staining any of the new clothes they got him. Maybe he could just go as himself and spout the Wednesday Addams line about serial killers looking like everyone else. Or…

He rifles through the garments in the back of his closet, the ones his foster parents deemed “unsuitable” for him. This is the one day of the year he could probably get away with dressing in his preferred style without embarrassing them. Why waste the opportunity?

It doesn’t take long to get in “costume.” Really, he’s always been pretty simple and understated in his style, which is partly why it had been so frustrating that even this had been too much for his new foster parents. A little dark, smoky eyeliner, some mauve lip gloss that pops nicely with the faint hint of five o’clock shadow he has growing in, painted nails and tousled hair, lace-up boots, and a black peasant top with a lace-up, cinched in waist that under _no_ circumstance is he going to let any of his foster family find out was bought from the women’s section of a secondhand shop. The riskiest final piece is the pentacle made of twigs and twine he ties with a ribbon around his neck.

For the first time in a few weeks he actually feels kind of good about himself. The Will Graham in the mirror isn’t the bland, washed out version who fades into himself in the school hallways like a ghost. Not that he _dislikes_ the Will who goes out in comfortable plaid, sans makeup, and cuts off his own vision with flat-lensed, non-prescription glasses. They’re both him, it’s just that for one hiding in plain sight is the goal while the other is…a little more honest with himself and others.

“Mommy and Daddy went ahead because you were taking too long and that’s all you did to dress up?” Frederick scoffs as soon as Will comes downstairs.

“I had to wait for my nails to dry,” says Will, showing off his fingers and fluttering his eyelashes innocently. _And I didn_ _’t want to ride in the car with your dear mommy and daddy in case they told me to wash it all back off,_ he doesn’t add.

The other boy sputters, red in the face for a moment before he recovers, eyes darting quickly away from his face to take in the rest of Will’s outfit. “What are you even supposed to be? Not one of my victims, certainly.”

“One of _your_ victims?” Will takes in the garish high-collared cape, top hat, gleaming silver cane, and ruffled white shirt that’s probably supposed to seem covered in blood but looks more like someone spilled ketchup and cherry kool-aid all down the front. “Discount Dracula?” he hazards a guess.

“I’m Jack the Ripper, _obviously._ _”_

“Obviously. Shall I run back upstairs then and shake the mothballs out of my Victorian prostitute’s uniform instead?”

“No, no, I can see you did your best to look the part already,” Chilton answers just as breezily. “Unless you mean to raid Mommy’s closet. I’m sure we could find you a skirt and push-up bra that would fit. Just stuff some tissues in there to fake the cleavage.”

Will walks past him to the door, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you _would_ love to see me in _Mommy_ _’s_ clothes, wouldn’t you, Freddy?”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean? And don’t call me that!”

Will has been to Alana’s house only once before, for a group project last week, but the town is small and straightforward in its design so he has no trouble remembering the walk on his own. Chilton has to lock up the house behind them and jogs to catch up. “If my parents had any _idea_ the way you talk to me when no one’s around…”

“Shut up, you like it anyway.” Will makes the mistake of glancing over and sees the effect this statement has in the complicated, embarrassed, doe-eyed expression Chilton makes. Great, as if living in the guy’s house weren’t already awkward and creepy enough, now he’s going to think Will is actually flirting with him. _Gross_. He walks faster and keeps his mouth shut the rest of the way, trying not to think about how fast the Chiltons would kick him out if they suspected him of “corrupting” their precious heir. Maybe there was more to their strict makeup and old wardrobe ban than just the _usual_ heteronormative bullshit.

“Hi boys, glad you could make it!” Alana answers the door herself in an elegant dress that looks more appropriate for a fairy tale ball than a simple Halloween party. Though she addresses both of them, Will feels like she means it more for him, and is also sure that Frederick feels equally certain she means it more for _him_. That’s because one of them is a spoiled snob who thinks _everyone_ caters to him and the other actually knows how to read people. Will won’t be the one who shatters Chilton’s illusions though, at least not tonight. Contrary to what his earlier sass would hint, Will’s usually not _mean_ without strong provocation first.

“I’m on door greeter duty,” she explains. “Letting guests in and handing out candy to trick-or-treaters.”

“Rather cheap of your father not to hire someone for that,” Frederick sniffs. Alana’s smile freezes in place.

“I volunteered,” she says. To Will, expression warming again, she adds, “It gets pretty stuffy and boring in there if I’m honest. Just a bunch of parents and other olds talking about tourist season or the economy or whatever in the main room while my old play room is where all the little kids whose nannies already took them trick-or-treating earlier run around screaming until the sugar rush wears off.” She laughs. “Until this year, Frederick’s always been the only one my age to show up.” No wonder she’d been so pleased to see Will then.

“Their loss. The food here is marvelous compared to what passes for catering at those so-called ‘ragers’ our peers are so fond of, Alana,” Frederick says, already eyeing the buffet table from where they’re standing. “If you’ll both excuse me for a moment.”

“To be honest,” Will admits, voice hushed as Chilton walks away lest he hear someone actually _agreeing_ with him, “I wouldn’t want to go to one of those parties either. Too loud. Too many people. Not enough personal space.”

“Oh, just wait til this crowd starts making a big enough dent into the wine spritzers,” Alana says. She winces as obnoxious laughter floats from the other room as if to prove her point. “I’m not a fan either, but sometimes I think it would be better than sticking around here while the adults have all the fun.”

“Why are we sticking around here then?” Will asks. The girl blinks, apparently not expecting that question.

Chilton returns with a tiny plate piled high with finger foods. “Alana,” he mumbles around a mouthful of food before swallowing. “I just overheard in there that your parents bought the old witch house and started renovating it into a museum. Why didn’t you say anything in class today?”

“It was _supposed_ to be a secret for now.” Alana snorts, somehow making it sound dainty and lady-like. “Dad must have already had one too many spritzers.”

“Do y’all mean where the Lecters lived? Their place is still standing?” Both of them seem surprised by the note of genuine interest in Will’s voice. Alana’s eyes brighten in excitement and mischief.

“Sure is. You still want to get out of here, Will?”

*

“Just for the record, when one of us inevitably gets bitten by a diseased raccoon in the wild or uh, a drooling meth head and has to be carried to the hospital by the other two, I want to remind you that I was against this idea from the start.”

“Come on, Fred, where’s your sense of Halloween spirit?” Will teases rather than point out that neither he nor Alana had actually invited him to tag along.

“You could _at least_ have said bitten by a werewolf, or a zombie. I mean, considering the date and where we are,” Alana adds. Their borrowed flashlights bounce around between crumbling tombstones and gnarled trees as they make their way through the old town cemetery, based on her word and Chilton’s reluctant agreement that this would be the fastest shortcut to their destination.

“Well, sorry to spoil the fun by voicing concerns based in reality rather than fantasy.” Despite Frederick’s doomsaying, they make it to the house without being attacked by any raccoons or rabid junkies. It’s in good solid condition for an old mill built out of wood at least three hundred years ago. That or Alana’s family has spared no expense in the restoration process. A security floodlight comes on as they approach, prompting Will to ask if there’s an alarm system.

“Of course, but no worries, I know the code.” Alana unlocks the door for them and punches in numbers on the keypad beside it once they’re inside until the beeping stops. “Renovations are close to done at this point. We’re just waiting for some of the last furniture replicas to be completed before we open.” She flips a switch and dim, yellowed mood lighting comes on from antique-looking but certainly _new_ iron chandeliers.

“Modern amenities aside, how accurate are these replicas supposed to be?” Will asks, eyeing the stark difference between the simplistic structure of the house and the rich, ornate carvings and flourishes in sturdy mahogany chairs and gilt framed mirrors.

“The Lecters didn’t build the millhouse, they just moved in after the old miller and his family died. Pox or something, I think,” Alana answers.

“Supposedly they were old money back in their own country. The Lecters, not the millers,” Frederick chuckles. “Rumor even has it they were nobility who fled their homeland after some big scandal, but no one’s ever been able to trace their history back before they landed in America to be sure.”

“You wanna know something really cool?” says Alana, leaning toward Will conspiratorially. “Not _everything_ here is a replica. That’s the real cauldron over there where they reportedly boiled the bones of their victims, and _this_ _…”_ She taps on the glass of a standing lectern display case. “Is supposed to be their spellbook.”

“What’s written in it?” Will stands beside her to gaze down at the leatherbound tome inside. He frowns, fingers smudging against the glass, hit suddenly by a faint stirring of sadness as he looks and an urge to pet it like he would a sick animal.

“No idea, Dad said the pages were too yellowed and faded to make out.”

“Hah! Is that what I think it is?” Frederick asks, striding confidently over to an iron stand bearing a tall, wide pillar candle with strange runes carved and stained into it.

“Mm-hm, the Blackflame Candle,” she says, taking on a spooky tone of voice like the kind for telling campfire stories. “There’s another part to the story Mr. Price didn’t mention today,” she tells Will. “About a curse of vengeance the witches laid on the town as they were hanged.”

“Isn’t there always a curse at the end of these old tragedies?” Will asks wryly.

“Legend has it if a virgin lights the candle on a night like tonight, when the moon is full, the witches will come back to wreak havoc on us all,” Frederick finishes the story with ghoulish glee. “Question now is, who here has a lighter? I’m not a smoker, but if one of you has the nasty habit, I won’t tattle.”

“Me neither,” says Alana.

“Nor me, but…” Will fishes an old Bic out of his pocket. “Never know when a bit of fireworks might come in handy. Least that’s what my daddy always said.”

“Surprise, surprise, our resident delinquent pulls through for us. _Kidding!_ _”_ the other boy tacks on hastily at the looks Will and Alana both give him.

“I haven’t done anything to warrant you making up a reputation about me,” Will says coldly. Alana puts a hand on his elbow that he almost shakes off before stopping himself.

“I know, it was a _joke_. Because of the way you look right now, and um, you know, _stereotypes_ about fosters and such.” Will is well aware of _stereotypes_. He already hears enough about his lack of _pedigree_ compared to the folks who took him in from people like the _other_ Freddie at their school. He doesn’t want to admit it stings a little to hear that kind of talk from a _member_ of that family or that it confirms the niggling thought in his head that even they don’t think he really belongs with them, so he drops it and walks over to Frederick, holding out the lighter.

“Oh no, it, uh, can’t be me, I’m afraid,” Frederick tells him with a wink. _Ugh._ As if he needed to know that.

“What was that?” Alana asks, stiffening up. “I just saw something dart under that cabinet over there.”

Will bends down into a crouch and looks under the cabinet in question, pulling out his flashlight again to cut through some of the odd shadows in the room next. “I don’t see anything. My guess is either a ghost or one of Fred’s dreaded raccoons.” Alana laughs a little uneasily but relaxes her shoulders, and Frederick sniffs haughtily. Order restored.

“So, which of you is going to light it?” the older boy asks.

“Are we really sure we want to?” Not that Will is superstitious, but he’s not keen on getting a black mark on his record for property damage or something if the other two don’t really have his back here. How much could an old candle be worth? It’s probably a fake anyway.

“I, um, I don’t qualify anymore either,” Alana mumbles, blushing.

“Really?” Frederick asks with far too much interest. “Do tell. Who was it? I want to know all the juicy details.”

“Of course you do,” Will says, not bothering to hide his disgust.

“You first,” Alana challenges. Predictably, Chilton flounders for a moment. When he recovers enough to speak, Will flicks the lighter on. He’d rather get this silly game over with and _not_ have to listen to Chilton’s gross bragging, imaginary or otherwise.

The other boy surprises him by holding his hand out over the wick before Will can light it. “Hang on, does this mean you admit to being a virgin then?” he asks with far too much glee. Will almost wants to lie just to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face, but that would just be sinking to his level, wouldn’t it?

 _“Yep,”_ he answers, letting his lips pop around the last letter. “But unlike someone else in this room, I’m not an insecure dick about it. Now move the hand unless you want a shiny new burn scar to go with the rest of your costume.” The other boy returns his hand to his side, a look of unbearably punchable smugness on his face.

Disposable gas station lighter meets fraying, centuries-old wick, and all other lights in the house suddenly go dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on until this fic is complete, I'm going to be alternating weeks for updates of this and _Body & Blood,_ i.e. next week will be a new B&B update, then the following week will be this one again, et cetera and so on. 
> 
> Then, instead of returning to updating B&B every week, I'll start posting other works to replace this one when it finishes on those alternating weeks. I absolutely love working on B&B full-time, but I'm antsy to start putting out some of my other ideas and return to some of my older WIPs that have been gathering dust too. 💖

Someone shrieks in the darkness. By its proximity, probably Frederick. A moment later, Alana curses, _“Shit,_ did the power go out? I thought we had a backup genny.” Twin beams of light crisscross the room as two flashlights are drawn again.

“Turn those back off,” Will whispers, still staring forward at the flickering flame of a candle that should never have been left where a group of dumb teenagers could pressure each other into messing with it.

“Whoa, it really is black,” Frederick mutters. “Did your parents add some kind of chemical to the wick to get that effect?” he asks. Alana shakes her head. He blows on it but nothing happens. The candle continues to burn. “It’s like one of those trick candles they put on birthday cakes sometimes,” he chuckles nervously.

“Turn the lights off,” Will repeats a little louder, backing away a few steps.

“Idiots two and three, I’d listen to idiot number one there even if he did just summon the apocalypse down on our asses,” says an unfamiliar feminine voice. Both beams bounce haphazardly around the room, trying to find the source.

“Who said that?” asks Alana, sounding truly frightened.

“Great prank, Alana, but you can give up the act now,” says Frederick, nervously hopeful. A thump in the center of the room draws both beams to the same spot, where a black cat stretches out, seemingly lazy in its movements except for the way its ears and whiskers flick attentively.

“Unless you kids _want_ to become dinner, I’d suggest hiding very soon,” the cat informs them pragmatically. Outside, the wind squalls in the previously still night, hard enough to rattle the windows and make the old boards creak, steadily gaining in speed. In the dim light, Will can make out through the front windows a strange, swirling dark fog like a dust storm. _Ashes,_ he thinks with sudden lurching horror. _Because they burned the bodies after they hanged them,_ he remembers from the rest of the lesson, t _o make sure they stayed dead. They burned them._

“Turn those fucking lights off!” he says one last time, and crouches behind the nearest bit of furniture big enough to hide behind. Alana and Frederick finally break from their frozen staring contest with the bored-looking cat to obey and follow suit.

The door flies open and bangs against the wall with a loud crash. The wind continues to howl, blowing scattered leaves and debris into the house, before it abruptly falls silent and still. After a moment, floorboards creak underneath heavy footsteps. A deep masculine voice hums.

“Such a cold reception for our homecoming, brothers.” Despite the sarcasm, the voice is equally cold and calculating, eerie with hidden malice.

“Think our little summoner turned tail and ran as soon as they saw us coming?” This one could almost pass for the same voice except that it’s rougher, the gravelly timbre of a chain smoker, and not so tightly constrained.

“A shame. I had hoped our guest would at least do us the courtesy of staying long enough for us to thank them.” The last voice is smoother and deceptively warmer than the other two. Coaxing. _We mean you no harm,_ it seems to convey in its rich undertones. _Come out, come out, wherever you are._ Will shivers.

The footsteps come farther into the room and the door creaks shut slowly behind them.

Will’s eyes adjust to the dark enough that he dares to peek through the narrow gap between the counter he darted behind and the wall. The men are tall and broad, all three dressed in long heavy cloaks with the hoods lowered. What he can make of their features in the moonlight shows a remarkably similar bone structure and confirms the theory that they are identical triplets.

The one with longer, shaggier hair appears to have some sort of dark splotch on his neck that Will can’t make out. Like a tattoo? That must be Nigel then. The one beside him with the short cropped hair and serious expression sporting a messed up looking eye would be Jean in that case. Which means the last one, with lightly coiffed hair and no known recognizable identifying markers has to be Hannibal.

He stands a little apart from his brothers, slowly wandering the room in a wide slow circuit and twisting his neck in a peculiar serpentine pattern as he seemingly scents the air. “We have more than one guest tonight, gentlemen,” he says. He is the smooth voiced one. “And none of them have gone far after all, it would seem. Three humans and one feline.”

Will leans back from the gap, heart thudding madly in his chest, and pushes himself past the surreality of their situation to try to think of a solution. None of their hiding spots are good for more than delaying the inevitable, but maybe he can distract the men for long enough to allow Alana and Frederick to sneak past them. If he could come up with an idea that would allow all three of them to get away, all the better.

“The damnable cat,” the cold voice growls. Jean, he would guess. “I told you before we should have simply killed her.”

“You did,” says Hannibal’s smooth voice lightly. “But that wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting, now would it?”

Above Will, close enough that he could reach it if he stands on top of the counter, is a fire sprinkler. Yeah, that could do the trick.

“My dear, there is no need to be so shy. Please, come out from under there.” _Oh no._ Will peeks around again to see that they’ve found Alana’s hiding spot under one of the cloth-covered tables. Exposed, she crawls out from under it and stands as instructed.

Jean raps his hand sharply against one of the tall cabinets, and its occupant shouts in pain as he presumably startles and bumps his head against something. Jean opens the cabinet without ceremony and Frederick tumbles out of it onto the floor, picking up the hat which rolls off his head as he scrambles to his feet as well. He stumbles backward and brandishes the cane in his hands in front of him like a shield.

Will decides to stand before one of the brothers comes closer to oust him from his hiding spot too. “Well, it’s about time you boys showed,” he says with far more bravado than he feels. “Here I was thinking you were going to stand us all up.” Alana and Frederick are both looking at him with similar expressions that all too plainly read, _‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’_ Will keeps talking to keep the older men’s focus on him and just hopes his friends aren’t really as dense as they’re acting right now.

“We’re the new coven in town, if that wasn’t obvious yet.” He uses the empty open shelves behind the counter display to climb up on top of it and sits, legs dangling as he leans back casually on his hands braced behind him against the polished wood. “But it’s _terribly_ boring here so we thought we’d scare up some old ghosts to liven the place up a bit, and what better time than on Samhain night?”

Their movements fluid as though they are of one mind, the three all reach into their cloaks to draw something out, and Will fights desperately against every instinct in him to tense up as they whisper something unintelligibly in the dark. The objects in their hands suddenly appear to _float_ out in front of them and with quick pincer-like touches to the tops of them, they suddenly flare with flickering light. More candles, plain stubby white ones. Will is honestly torn between awe at the blatant display of _actual magic,_ relief that it isn’t to do something worse, and terror for what is to come.

“There, that’s better,” the one Will has determined to be Hannibal says pleasantly. “A little more light to see by while we make each others’ acquaintances,” he adds, a faint humorous lilt to his tone that suggests he is aware the teens were expecting something far worse. Right, Will didn’t _really_ think they would buy into his lie just like that, but for his vague hope of a plan to have any chance at success, he’ll have to convince them. Or at least paint a bigger target on himself than the others.

“Wow, you guys say all of your spells out loud? That’s so cute! Like, really old-fashioned, you know?” His foot taps, still dangling, against the front of the counter, which he hopes he’s successfully passing off as playful nonchalance rather than the nervous, anticipatory energy it actually is. All of the brothers’ eyes are on him now, which is a good thing he has to remind himself, it’s what he _wanted,_ but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

The one he thinks is Jean seems to bristle and, alarmingly, a trail of blood streaks down his face from his clouded eye like a tear. The hairs at the back of Will’s neck stand on end, and still he keeps his own attention away from Alana and Frederick as much as he can, as if hoping to will them invisible and uninteresting to the others by feigning it in himself. He dimly notes Alana subtly gesturing to Frederick and carefully inching her way toward the door behind the men, _thank god,_ and brushes aside the niggling sense of her worry for Will like a troublesome gnat.

“Hah, you’ve got a mouth on you, kid, I’ll give you that.” Nigel pulls something else out of his robe, a dark cigarillo from the looks of it, and casually lights it on one of the candles floating in front of him, filling the room with a sweet herbaceous scent like cloves as he takes a relaxed puff from it, miraculously not noticing as the boy blunder Frederick Chilton tiptoes exaggeratedly behind him like he’s on _Scooby Doo_.

“We are wasting what time we have before dawn approaches,” Jean growls, and begins to stalk toward Will. The boy immediately springs up to his feet on top of the counter.

“Hold a moment, brother,” Hannibal says placidly without looking away from Will, eyes glittering. It feels more ominous somehow than his brother’s clear murderous intent.

The snarl on Jean’s face as he turns to face Hannibal must be horrifying, given the way Alana and Frederick both freeze in place for a moment at the sight of it. “I would expect this lack of focus from our brother, Hannibal,” he utters in deathly quiet. Nigel makes a rude gesture with his free hand and continues to smoke. “But not from you. Do not forget your amusements come second to our lives.”

Chilton, epic fuck-up that he is, apparently thinks this is a good time to make a desperate sprint for the door. Nigel blinks, then casually shifts a foot forward and Chilton trips over nothing, sprawling face first onto the floor again. All of that soft coiled rage within Jean shifts to the unfortunate teen as well. Alana stands petrified before remembering to try and help him up. Hannibal tilts his head, surprised, amused, curious, before returning his gaze unerringly to the boy on top of the counter.

“Well done,” he murmurs with a nearly microscopic smile. “Were one of your compatriots not terribly clumsy, the attempt to monopolize our attentions may have held true.”

“That’s not the only trick up my sleeve,” Will tells him. “Ever heard of acid rain?” He flicks on the lighter hidden in his fist, which on its own is enough to make the Lecters pause and stare in curiosity. Then he raises it up to the sprinkler above his head.

Alana, bless her, makes a big show of throwing her jacket over her head and screaming as if in pain as she runs for the door again, dragging Chilton along with her. Frederick is also screaming, though whether that’s to help her sell it or just genuine terror is anyone’s guess. Either way, it’s effective. The Lecter triplets pull their hoods up and retreat against the nearest wall, as far from the mysterious “acid rain” as they can get while they try to regroup.

Will hops down from the counter and pulls the hood of his jacket up too, prepared to run for the door as well when an odd hissing grabs his attention. It’s the strange cat again, rubbing herself along the podium the spellbook is protected inside of tellingly. Will doesn’t waste time asking himself why he’s taking questionable advice from a talking cat who won’t even use her words now. He just grabs the heaviest object he can find and smashes the glass in so he can gingerly lift the book out of it and run.

“To the cemetery, quick!” she calls once they’re both outside and hopefully out of hearing range of the witches inside, easily keeping pace with him. Alana and Frederick are already halfway there themselves, likely retracing their earlier steps on instinct.

They all stop to catch their breaths for just a moment within the cemetery gates, under the shadow of a grand weeping willow. Alana looks to Will in clear relief that he made it this far with them. Frederick wheezes harder than anyone else, clearly not used to this much exercise.

“Okay, we can all take it a little easier now that we’re on consecrated ground, but not for long,” the cat says between panted breaths. Will frowns uncertainly but doesn’t contest the claim since he’s hardly the expert here. She must know a lot more about what’s going on than any of them. “The Lecters are all very intelligent. They’ll figure out your ruse quickly, boy. Let’s keep moving further in while we think of what to do next.”

“Oh, the…the cat thing came with us. That’s…that’s great,” says Chilton, looking down at her warily. Alana still doesn’t seem sure what to make of her either. Only Will has zero qualms about following her deeper into the graveyard as she suggests, the other two trailing a bit further back behind them.

Will shivers in the wind, pulling his sodden jacket off since it can’t really do its job of blocking out the autumn chill anymore. He awkwardly wrings it out while carrying the book under his arm as they walk. “You’re Beverly Katz, aren’t you?”

The cat stops for a moment, ears flicking before she looks up at him. “How did you know that?”

“Seems obvious. You’re kind of famous in this town apparently. For rushing into that house to save Mayor Verger’s son, only to disappear forever. Lots of speculation about what happened that night, you know?”

Beverly’s tail twitches. “I know,” she says, and keeps walking.

They stop in the middle of the graveyard, where the headstones are older, smaller, plainer—the original village plots, before the cemetery expanded on all sides as it grew out over the years to accommodate a larger population. It must be so lonely, he thinks. Everyone she once knew in this village is in one of these graves. Had she had family here? Friends? Had she tried speaking to any of them in this form, or hung back in fear that they would burn her as they burned the witches who changed her? Did past loves feed a stray cat scraps from their hands which she gladly took, starving, though not for the food? What had it been like to stay the same as the townsfolk around her turned old and grey, then their grandkids, then their grandkids’ grandkids? Did she regret going to the Lecters’ millhouse that night?

Will realizes he’s been staring when Beverly’s ears flatten, her voice no more than a displeased, warbling low growl in her throat. He looks away feeling chastised.

“Will? Why do you have the book?” Alana asks. Will has the sense she’s asked this more than once now while he’s been distracted though she doesn’t seem annoyed, just worried and confused.

“That book is your key to getting through this night alive,” Beverly tells them.

“Why? Does it have instructions inside for how to send the Lecters back to Hell?” Frederick asks, apparently recovered from his shock enough finally to roll with the punches and address the cat directly. He sits atop a long, sunken in headstone, the kind used for married couples. Their eyes have adjusted well enough to the dark that Will can make out “Charles Co—” on one side of where his foster brother sits before the rest is cut off, ending in “—iella Countryman” on the other side of him.

“No! Under no circumstances should you open it,” she tells them sharply. “Nothing good can come of that. But there is a ritual in there that will give them the ability to live past the night. If they can’t use it to drain the life force of a human before dawn, when the Blackflame Candle dies out, they’ll return to dust and vanish.”

“Then we just stay here until then, problem solved,” says Alana. Beverly’s ears flatten again, this time out of shame and fear. “You said they can’t come here because it’s hallowed ground, right?”

“Shall I order us a pizza and a SWAT team for delivery?” Frederick drawls, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“There’s _no way_ cops are going to be any help against actual witches!” Alana argues.

“They can’t set _foot_ here, but…” Beverly trails off, tail twitching back and forth with nervous energy. Will catches on even before he looks up at the sky and makes out three dark shapes coming their way against the backdrop of stars and moonlight. “Uh, we’re not gonna want to stay out in the open for long regardless.”

Alana gasps as she catches sight of the brothers flying towards them while Frederick simply freezes, mouth agape. Will cradles the spellbook to his chest, strangely warmed and comforted by its closeness. They have the power here, not the Lecters, as long as they play their cards right. He thinks about wrapping his damp jacket protectively around it but has the inane thought that it wouldn’t be good for the leather.

The men come to a stop just in front of them, their toes hovering inches above the ground as they sit astride their broomsticks, looming somehow larger and more dangerous than before, more _real_. They cut fine, handsome figures in the moonlight, as if this is how they were meant to be seen in all their glory in the dark of night.

“You left before introductions could me made. That was rude, children.”

“They already know who you are, gentlemen,” says Beverly. She cowers a bit at the nearly perverse, menacing smirk Jean gives her, his hands gripping the end of his broom tighter in an intent, wringing motion.

“Our reputation precedes us then, Miss Katz,” Hannibal continues. “However, I’m afraid the same cannot be said for the reverse. Won’t you introduce us?”

“Look, you’re here for this, right?” Will interjects, tapping lightly against the back cover of the book in his arms. It almost seems warmer now, buzzing with energy perhaps at the proximity of its masters. He pets a little unconsciously, gentling it. “Maybe we can make a deal.”

“I’m afraid that’s not all we’re here for, little witch,” Jean sneers, voice dripping condescension on the final two words. “But tell us which of you lit the candle, and we will consider allowing the other two to leave with your lives.”

“My bet is on the one who shot a live spark out of his hand,” says Nigel.

“That was a lighter,” Alana sneers back at them in kind, straightening her back as she faces them down. “Anyone with opposable thumbs could use it.”

“Well, perhaps it was you then, gorgeous.” Nigel leans forward, arms crossed casually over the broomstick in front of him, and drifts a few inches closer, causing her to step back. “Hanni, you did say you thought it was the pretty one, right?”

“He said the _clever,_ pretty one,” Jean corrects. Alana frowns as if she’s not sure whether or not to take offense.

Hannibal makes a face. “Please excuse my brothers’ bluntness. Waking so suddenly from our long rest in the void and returning to a sudden shower within our old home has left us all a touch irritable, I’m sure you understand.”

“Enough of this,” Jean says. “Save the pleasantries for later.” He leans forward sharply, speeding toward Will almost faster than the boy can dodge. He barely gets out of the way in time. He and Alana both take off in different directions, running zigzag as the brothers disperse to chase them.

Frederick tries to scramble up to run too and somehow ends up flat on his back instead, sprawled uncomfortably over the long headstone. “It-it wasn’t me, I swear!” he shouts as Nigel lazily hovers over him, lighting another cigarillo. “You were right, it’s one of the, uh, pretty ones!” He coughs as Nigel blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose you’ll mind sharing which one it is so one of my brothers can stop wasting his time. _No?_ _”_ he drawls as Chilton hesitates.

“W-why do you want to know anyway?” Nigel ignores the question, eyes glittering as he reads the names Chilton’s legs are sprawled akimbo over. He mutters in an indecipherable tongue, moving the cigarillo in his hand jerkily to draw peculiar runic patterns in the air between them. He then cuts his own hand with a hidden blade up his sleeve, or perhaps simply the force of his own will and magic, dripping blood onto the ground below him.

Everyone stops as the ground rumbles and a strange electric hum vibrates along their skin, including the brothers. Jean sputters angrily in another unfamiliar language that sounds vaguely Slavic in origin. “What are you doing, Nigel?” he asks with blatantly false jollity, smiling through his teeth. “This is not the time for that.”

The soil around Chilton’s feet crumbles and roils, forcing him to hurriedly scoot backwards away from the grave. A hand sprouts from the ground, putrid rotting flesh knitting itself closed over stringy sinew and gnarled bones, and an unholy, wretched scream sounds from deep in the earth as Nigel reaches for the hand to help pull its owner up.

_“Psst, come on, this way,”_ Beverly gets Will’s attention once more. Will tears his gaze away from the horror rising up from below, trying not to think about how awful and pained it sounds as its jaw flaps at a limp, crooked angle and vivid auburn hair starts to sprout from its newly formed scalp. Beverly takes off toward what looks like a frankly ancient sewer grate set into a crumbling fallen wall. She slinks into it through a gap that is much too small for him, but having no better ideas Will follows her lead again anyway, setting the book precariously in his lap as he tries to wrench the grate open.

Jean comes flying toward him again, blood from his scarred, weeping eye streaking over his face and whipping droplets past him in the wind he creates.

Alana suddenly runs up, changing her trajectory at the last minute and turning her movement into a baseball slide along the grass, which forces Hannibal to pull the front of his broom up and brake to avoid slamming into Nigel, still too fixated on the corpse he reanimated to notice in time to move. She picks up Frederick’s fallen cane as she glides past it and springs to her feet again, the other boy finally getting up as she does and following on her heels.

She catches up to Jean, clutching the cane like a bat, and swings with all of her might. It connects with his head with an ugly crack that sends the witch spinning, dazed and barely clinging onto his broom.

“Help me with this!” Will shouts. Together, the three of them manage to prise the grate open. The hole is just barely big enough for one teen to fit through at a time, and thankfully not big enough for a broad-shouldered, fully grown man. Frederick doesn’t hesitate to crawl on his belly and climb in first, dropping into the sewer below with a grunt and a splash. Alana follows him after a quick jerky nod from Will, who passes her the spellbook once she drops into the sewer before turning to climb down with them.

He catches one last glimpse of the brothers as he drops down—of Jean holding his hand against the side of his face, still astride his broom but leaning against a nearby tree for support; of Nigel, helping the nude and now distinctly feminine zombie creature regain its footing on solid ground like a newborn foal, his touch and expression oddly tender; and of Hannibal, murmuring something to Nigel before he looks up, straight into Will’s eyes, and says nothing more nor makes any movement towards him despite being the only Lecter not currently occupied with something else. He merely holds Will’s gaze and smiles.

Will nearly forgets to let go and drop the rest of the way down, only releasing his hold on the ledge when he feels tugging on his pants leg and hears Alana’s voice mutter his name frantically.

*

Hannibal drifts slowly to his other sibling, leaving Nigel to his awkward and unexpected sudden reunion with his Gabriella alone. “Is your head still ringing?” he asks, his tone whisper-soft and sympathetic.

Jean half-smiles and half-grimaces, rolling his neck from side to side until he hears a distinct crack and pop. “Be wary of the girl. She is surprisingly athletic, with a deceptively powerful swing. Must have been given some form of combat training.”

Hannibal hums softly in agreement. “Did you see?” he asks.

“See what? See the _idiot_ over there ruin our chances of resolving this problem quickly by getting distracted over a woman again? Over _that_ woman again?”

“We mustn’t judge our brother too harshly. You have never been in love, Jean. Either it pays you a visit or it doesn’t, but you cannot understand the mad hold it has over its victim’s senses until you have experienced it for yourself.”

“You have never been in love either,” Jean points out gruffly, sniffing once as he lifts a handkerchief to his bloodied face.

Hannibal remains still astride his broomstick, face carefully blank. “Did you see the way he held her? Like he knew that she was precious.”

Jean stiffens as he looks again to his brother. “No. Damn it all, not you too now! I have little enough patience wrangling one heartsick fool. Must I be the only one left with any reason in his head?”

“Do we know where this section of the sewer system leads? If so, we can catch up to them there,” Hannibal says, a different, dangerous sort of lightness to his voice that makes his brother’s shoulders hunch in, aware that he has crossed a line.

“No, but it shouldn’t be hard to trace them. It is a high probability they will go where they can gather more support and attempt to fortify themselves against us, straight to their town elders most likely. At least one of them looked also as though he came from wealth. We find the biggest, grandest house in the residential district, we find them.”

“Then let us wrangle our besotted brother and be on our way.” Hannibal turns to Jean with a benevolent smile. “And do remember we are better than the pigs all around us, Jean. Even on a deadline as short as this, there is always time for good manners.” Jean nods, and the two of them drift back over to Nigel together to ‘gently’ pry him away from his darling Gabi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*prays this doesn't turn into a four-parter*_ 🤞

**Author's Note:**

> This is a made-up AU version of Wolftrap because I wanted to keep the name, Virginians please don't @ me about historical or geographical accuracy. Or spelling. xD


End file.
